It was Chris Graham who reminded me, jogging my memory when he sent me the old picture. There the man was, metaphorically at least, staring out of the paper. Mord Filch. I suspect that in his day he was one of the most respected doctors in Port Naain. He had a flourishing practice, his cupping glasses rarely had time to cool and his heated needles were always hot.
Yet he was a man of many parts, and he was also a member of the Society of Minor Poets. He never wrote much poetry, (which in a minor poet is a trait worthy of encouragement.) On the other hand he was a stalwart of the afternoon and evening entertainment we put of the denizens of Ropewalk. He would throw himself into any role, however undignified and regarded the whole thing as great fun.
Now I don’t know whether you know the…
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